Chapter 2 - What He Ordered Instead of Dinner
The chair was too tall for me and my feet didn't touch anything. I had to pull myself up by the edge of the white tablecloth, and I was scared I'd pull a glass down. The man didn't help me. He just moved his hand a little to the side, like he was making room, and said it again, quieter.
"Sit down."
I sat. The seat was soft and cold at the same time, and my hoodie stuck to my back. My feet were wet from the sidewalk outside, and I tried to tuck them under the chair so nobody would look at them. I could smell his dinner. The spaghetti was right there in front of him, with the broccoli on top, and the steam kept coming up. There was a steak on the other plate. I tried not to stare at it, but my stomach made a noise. I put my hand over it.
The waiter came up behind me. I felt him there before I saw him. Black vest, white shirt. He didn't say anything at first. He just looked at the man, then at me, and I knew what that look meant. I'd seen it at the gas station on Highway 9 when I tried to use the bathroom, and at the church parking lot when they were handing out boxes.
I clutched the zipper of my hoodie. My fingers wouldn't stay still.
The man didn't look at the waiter. He kept looking at me. Then he said, "Bring her what I'm having and warm milk."
His voice wasn't loud. It was the same low voice he'd used before. The waiter paused. I could hear him breathing behind me.
"Sir?" he said.
The man nodded once toward the empty space in front of me. "The same plate. And warm milk. In a mug, not a glass."
The waiter wrote something down, even though it wasn't a hard order. Then he stepped back. I heard his shoes go away on the wood floor. The other man in a vest was still standing by the window, watching. I didn't turn around to look at him.
The man in the navy suit didn't talk while we waited. He moved his own plate a little to the side, away from me, like he didn't want me to think I had to take his. His silver watch caught the light from the pendant over our table. He had a gold ring on his left hand. He folded his hands together and rested them near his plate. He wasn't eating now. He'd stopped.
Rain hit the big window behind him. I could see the city lights all blurry and orange and blue through the water. It was warm inside. My shoulders started to shake a little because I wasn't cold anymore, and that felt strange.
"You cold?" he asked.
I shook my head. I didn't want to lie, but I didn't want him to think something was wrong and change his mind. He nodded like he understood anyway.
The waiter came back fast with a white plate. The same spaghetti. The same little green pieces of broccoli. He set it down in front of me carefully, like it mattered where it went. Then he set down the silver fork next to it, straight. Then another man brought the mug. I could see the steam. Warm milk.
"Careful, it's hot," the waiter said to me. He didn't sound mean. He sounded unsure.
I looked at the man. I didn't pick up the fork yet because I thought maybe there was a rule. At school last year we had to wait until everyone was served. My hands were dirty. There was dirt under my nails and a smudge on my thumb I couldn't rub off. I hid them under the table for a second.
He saw. "Go ahead," he said.
I picked up the fork. It was heavy — real heavy, not plastic. I twisted it in the spaghetti the way I'd seen people do, but too much got on and fell back down. My hand was shaking. I finally got some in my mouth.
It was hot and salty and soft. I chewed and my eyes watered. I didn't mean to eat fast, but I did. I took another bite, and another. The fork kept clinking against the plate. I tried to be quiet, but I couldn't slow down. The broccoli was soft too, and I ate that without stopping.
The man watched. He didn't eat. He just sat there with his hands folded, watching me eat his food. Every time I looked up, his blue eyes were still on me. Not mad. Just steady. It made my throat tight.
After a while my stomach hurt from going too fast. I had to stop. I put the fork down and breathed through my nose. In and out. I could hear myself. The milk was in front of me, warm against my hand when I touched the mug. I took a small sip. It burned my lip a little, but it was good. It tasted like safety, if that makes sense.
I stared at the plate. Half of it was still there. I was scared if I stopped, he'd think I was done and they'd take it away. So I picked the fork up again, slower this time. My breathing got evened out. The clinking wasn't so loud.
The waiter passed by again and glanced down. He didn't say anything. The pendant light over us buzzed very low. Outside, a car went by and its headlights smeared across the rainy window.
The man unfolded his hands. He reached for his water glass but didn't drink. He just held it.
May you like
Then he looked at me again, and his voice got even quieter. Like he didn't want the men in vests to hear.
"Where is your family?"
